A Second Opinion
by Neo the Worldsmith
Summary: Sherlock Holmes travels to Quantico, Virginia to help with the Chesapeake Ripper investigation.
1. Chapter 1

Jack Crawford had been reluctant to consult anyone outside of the FBI, but with Will teetering on the brink of insanity and Alana threatening to resign, he had little choice. The email from London DI Greg Lestrade was hardly promising; though his recommended man was undoubtedly the best England had to offer, he had psychoses enough to rival the agent's top analyst.

Jack rubbed his eyes and began to pack up his briefcase. He was unconvinced that the detective's motives for coming all the way to America were entirely virtuous; Lestrade had mentioned in the email an interest in Will's condition. Though he supposed a second opinion couldn't hurt.

The detective had asked only one thing of him: that no one be informed of his **arrival**. It was an odd request, now that Jack came to think of it. The man's name certainly was not well known in parts other than London. But he was very explicit in this instruction, and Jack felt it was only polite to oblige.

He stood in the doorway and looked back at his desk once more, at the pinboard plastered with the lives of the dead and their residue. He clicked off the light and left.


	2. Chapter 2

Hannibal Lecter was exceedingly well acquainted with the minds and mannerisms of those around him. Though Jack Crawford was and would forever remain a man of half-truths and manipulation, there had been the smell of fresher deceit about him today, and Hannibal was too curious not to investigate.

As soon as his last patient for the day had departed (a man who believed that his entire world was composed of fantastical characters generated by his own hyperactive imagination), Hannibal donned a knee-length green coat and calfskin gloves and headed out into the rain towards FBI headquarters.

The guards knew his face, and the ease with which they believed his story of a forgotten pair of keys in Jack's office was both amusing and empowering. He knew that there would be no reason for them to check the internal room camera footage now that his story was secure.


	3. Chapter 3

Will Graham was at home, burning. Flames licked around him as he moaned and thrashed and arched his back and tried to escape the ever-present heat. He was at the center of a ring of fire, shadowy figures pacing just out of sight. The stag was there, of course. He had come to expect its presence. It was reassurance that everything was all in his head. Which wasn't much help at the moment, but at least he knew – intellectually – that he wasn't burning alive. That didn't change the fact that he was mad with fear.

Suddenly the fire began to hiss and recede like a struck animal as a mist of cool droplets rained down from above. The stag, minutes before haloed eternally in flame, wailed and staggered away. Although its association in his mind was undoubtedly negative, for a minute, crazily, he wanted it back. And then he lost himself in the imagined rain and slept, for the first time in a long while, dreamlessly.


	4. Chapter 4

Hannibal paged quickly through meaningless emails regarding lunch timetables and meetings, scanning each for something out of the ordinary. After less than a minute of this, his gaze snagged on a name that he didn't recognize: Gregory Lestrade. He read quickly through the message and smiled slightly to himself. Though the man who would be arriving at the airport the next day remained nameless in the email, his personality more than made up for this lack. Hannibal looked forward to meeting him and making a diagnosis of his own.

Lestrade himself was seemingly prone to exaggeration; his recounting of the detective's abilities illustrated willingness – perhaps even need – to embellish the truth. Hannibal was reluctant to believe that a human brain could make the frankly astonishing leaps described in the email. (_Though perhaps that would explain the disinterest in social activities_, he thought idly.) He knew the cost of brilliance.

Hannibal was satisfied that, interesting though the man seemed, he would likely pose little threat. He might even provide an interesting plaything with which the doctor could sate his curiosity. His psychological complexity would, Hannibal thought, react in new and interesting ways to any challenge he could throw at it.

Hannibal left the building with nothing more than the information he had gathered. He had decided, at the last minute, to delete the camera footage of his time in Jack's office using the remote server access available from Jack's computer and replace it with a looped recording of the empty office from the previous night. Just to be sure.


	5. Chapter 5

(Following the events of both _Savoureaux _and_ The Reichenbach Fall)_

Jack Crawford had nearly forgotten all about the London detective in the wake of the chaos of the past few weeks. Abigail Hobbs presumed dead, Georgia Madchen burned alive, and Will…Jack was unsure what to make of Will's situation. There was something odd about the entire fiasco. The evidence did not quite add up. But he wrote the feeling off as sleep deprivation, and moved on in the list of woes.

Worry for his wife was at the forefront of his mind, for Bella was beginning to feel the symptoms of her malady. Occasional chest pain, coughing fits, and shortness of breath - all minor effects that heralded the beginning of her inexorable march towards death.

So it was unsurprising that he did not immediately register the name on the email. Greg Lestrade was his last concern. However, the detective inspector's message was more germane to Jack's world. Dangerous investigation, man named Moriarty, conspiracies, lies. Secrecy was no longer relevant. The detective's name was Sherlock Holmes, and he was a fraud now buried under the earth. And Jack had one less hope for the Chesapeake Ripper investigation. He closed his eyes in the futile hope that perhaps upon their opening things would seem less bleak.

As if in answer to an unspoken prayer, a silky British drawl rang out in the stillness. "Perhaps the fates are on your side after all, Agent Crawford."


	6. Chapter 6

Jack was pointing his Bureau-issued handgun towards the origination point of the voice even before his eyes had snapped completely open. The tall, dark-haired man in the long coat smirked and eyed it.

"You won't be needing that." He paused, than corrected himself. "Not at the moment, anyway."

Jack did not budge. He did not waver. He was in his element and, for the first time in God knows how long, he seemed to have the upper hand. "And whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making this fine evening?" The sarcasm practically dripped off of every word.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes." Jack bridled internally under the man's relentless stare, but did not quirk an eyebrow. "That's funny. Because I just received an email saying in no uncertain terms that you were quite recognizably dead."

"Oh, was I?" He waved a hand as if dispelling the rumor. "Bad habit."

The figure in front of him was undoubtedly the same man whose mug shot was open on the screen of Jack's computer, attached to Lestrade's latest message. Jack glanced once more at the screen, then sighed and lowered his gun.

"Why does Lestrade think you're dead?"

"Complications arose." Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out into the night. "I took actions necessary to protect those to whom I…feel a certain sentimental attachment."

"So why come to America?"

Sherlock turned around, and there was a gleam in his eye that had not been present before.

"Because, Agent Crawford, I saw a case that seemed interesting and, perhaps just the smallest bit…_challenging_."


	7. Chapter 7

Will felt more alive than he had in years. His head was a crystal decanter, and its contents were no longer murky with doubt. He knew, with absolute conviction, that he was correct. Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper. The smoke that had obscured his sight had cleared, and in its place was a shining awareness that nearly blinded him.

Behind bars, Will Graham was finally free.

He lay on his cot and heard the footsteps approaching and knew with a sense of inexplicable inevitability that they were coming for him. He sat up and turned slowly towards his visitor, and immediately the analysis began. The reflex was no comfort – it was simply a cold ability that simultaneously disgusted and amazed him.

He had more trouble with people than crime scenes; personality imprinted in bloodstains and fingerprints was easier to read than on a face. Therefore he had begun to think of people as locations to be scouted and categorized, and in this way he was able to see them more clearly. He had a vague idea of the psychological implications of this habit, but pushed the worries aside for later contemplation.

The man was evidently European (judging by the relative narrowness of the face, the sloping of the eye orbits, the narrow nasal opening). From the rumpled state of his clothes he decided the man must have recently been on a plane. The way he carried himself suggested a military background. He was depressed but had learned to hide it. Who he was and the reason for his coming still eluded him.

"Hello, my name's John Watson." The man stuck his arm through the bars. Will shook it warily. "I'm here to talk to you about the events of several weeks ago."


End file.
